


Guys Doing Dude Things

by kawuoru, punkrockbadger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, James Lives, Mental Health Issues, Only One Survives AU, POC Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuoru/pseuds/kawuoru, https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockbadger/pseuds/punkrockbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>your faves are back and, this time, only one of them is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guys Doing Dude Things

**Author's Note:**

> Fun things to know before you read this! -- This series' Lily is Bangladeshi, Muslim, and identifies as nonbinary (Lily uses they/them/their pronouns).
> 
> Harry, who (in this fic) is raised in the ancient Tamil Brahmin tradition of hypocrisy, snark and passive aggressive affection, grows up referring to them with singular they pronouns, when speaking English, and knows to avoid gendering them in Tamil as much as possible (which is easy-ish in Brahmin/Central Tamil, which is what James and Harry would speak).
> 
> Another important note is that, within Bangladesh, Hindus and Muslims historically have been separated socially & culturally. Because of this, the tensions between James and Petunia are considerably higher (i.e. he's a wizard and a Hindu). This also contributes to tension between James and Vernon, because not only is James a Hindu wizard, he's also brown. This matters because Vernon is (in Sofen's words) a white boy convert. 
> 
> He's gross, but you'll find out more about that in Sofen's fic.
> 
> Within this chapter, if an entire sentence of dialogue is italicized, it can be assumed that James or Harry is speaking in Tamil. As the language is tough to transliterate, I felt that it would flow better if I just gave approximate English translations. A list of words that I did end up writing in Tamil and their meanings, in the order in which the words appear, can be found at the end of the fic!

"Appa?" Harry, now two and a quarter, tugs on his father's hand as they walk down the street. Harry is laughing at everything, occasionally recognizing a familiar street corner or a patch of grass he'd rolled in, but James' eyes are trained on the still half-wrecked house at the end of the road.

He'd decided not to fix it, after Halloween, instead uprooting Harry and moving them closer to Remus and Sirius' London flat. Now that he sees the house, a year removed from the last time he ran from it, he realizes that he made the right decision. He couldn't have stayed.

"Appa?" Harry asks, as James swings the gate open, toddling ahead up to the front steps before waiting patiently for James to catch up. "Where we goin'?"

"Appa's going to be busy praying for Ammu, okay? Do you want to stay with me or should I call Uncle Remus?" Harry scrunches up his nose, much like Lily did when they were deep in thought, and holds onto James' hand a little tighter.

"Wanna stay." He decides, and tugs James ahead into the gloom. The bottom two stairs are still dented where Lily had fallen on them twelve months ago, but James tries not to spare that a second thought. They wouldn't want him dwelling on things, not when there was Harry, notorious for his mischief already at two, roaming around in an inadequately childproofed house to worry about.

James remembers chasing Harry up these stairs, when Harry'd first learned to climb them, Lily two steps closer to Harry, as always, and barely catches his son by the back of his shirt as Harry fumbles his way onto the top step. Harry brushes his hand across the wall, short, stubby fingers trailing across the remainders of one of Lily's many art projects, and he turns to James suddenly. He looks so much like Lily in that moment, with that determined spark in his eyes, that James freezes in place before finding his way back to breathing again.

"Find Ammu?" Harry chirps happily, before patting the painting. James doesn't remember how many times Lily had taken to drawing on the walls over those long months, often with Harry scribbling happily beside them, but he knows that they probably still do. And, apparently, Harry does as well.

Harry's hardly mentioned Lily unless prompted, lately, and James is somewhat taken aback. He worries, sometimes, that Harry is starting to forget, and wishes that he had more of Lily left than a few photographs and those ridiculous pastel sweaters they loved. They are folded neatly in the corner of his closet, and he hardly touches them. Sometimes, he worries that he might be beginning to forget too. "Yeah, buddy, sure. We'll find them somewhere 'round here."

"Okay." Within ten minutes, Harry has found a few of his old toys and loudly declared that he will be taking them home with him, as if this wasn't the home he'd known for nearly all of his life, and James meets the priest downstairs just on time. Harry sits in James' lap, mimicking his actions from time to time, and all James can think of is the fact that Lily would have laughed. Probably called them both goats to boot.

They always did love calling James a farm animal.

And, sooner than later, the reason for them to be here disappears, and James locks the gate for another year. There is nothing worth stealing, nothing worth protecting, in this old shell of a house. All of those things left, one way or another, last year.

"Say bye to Ammu, kanna." James says to Harry, who is currently falling asleep in his arms. Harry lifts his head just slightly from where he'd laid it down on James' shoulder, and waves sleepily. "We won't be back here for awhile, and it's mean if you don't say bye."  
  
"Buh bye." Harry mumbles, yawning halfway through. "See soon."

"See you again soon." James says, as Harry settles back to sleep, and the father and son walk to the end of the street before disappearing, with only the slight echo of a popping sound to prove they'd ever been there.

* * *

James is muttering shlokas to himself when he hears Harry’s footsteps behind him, and holds his hand up for a second.

Harry stops in his tracks, as he usually does, even though James can hear his four year old son tapping his foot on the floor impatiently. James smiles, despite the fact that he’s meant to be meditating, and somehow makes his way through the hundred and eighth iteration of the Gayatri Mantra without laughing at the loud, impassioned sigh he hears halfway through iteration seventy-seven.

“Appa, _please_.” Harry whines, stomping his foot, and James shrugs. He’s not done yet, and if he stops, Harry won’t let him finish. “Two sentences. Promise.”

James snorts loudly, and keeps going, and eventually Harry distracts himself with a toy, just in time for James to wrap up his prayers. Funny how that always seems to happen.

“What did you want to ask?” James is hardly a religious guy, and it’s January in England and their heater is currently broken, so he’s sitting here in his sweatpants and banian because whoever wrote the Vedas probably had no idea that people would end up in places where their balls could literally get frozen off if they followed all the rules.

“I forgot.” Harry thoughtfully chews on the ear of the stuffed bunny Sirius had gotten him last Christmas. “How come you pray so much?”

“Someone’s got to save me at the end of this. Might as well give them a reason.” James ruffles Harry’s hair. He’ll get to everything else later. For now, it’s Saturday morning and Sesame Street starts in five minutes.

And, when you’re living with a four year old, nothing takes precedence over Sesame Street.

* * *

“Appa, stop!” Harry hollers, reaching for his toy, and Appa holds it far out of reach. It’s not fair that Appa’s so much taller than he is, because he towers over Harry, swinging Harry’s toy back and forth. “Give it back!”

“The licking thing’s getting out of hand, kanna. How’re you going to get by at school if you’re acting like the cat?” The cat hardly likes Harry or Appa, but by some weird miracle, it’s both alive and living with them. Appa likes to “lovingly” call the cat a hell demon to its face. Harry thinks that’s just mean.

“The cat’s nicer than you are!” Harry huffs, crossing his arms. “It doesn’t take my toys.”

“That’s because Shadow only hungers for human flesh, thangamae.” Harry knows he’s in trouble when Appa calls him sweetheart in more than one way, and he shudders to think of what lies ahead. Last time that happened, it was ‘cause of Harry’s nail biting thing, and he ended up with the yucky nail polish that made his mouth taste weird.

Appa draws his wand and taps each of Harry’s toys in turn before waving it about the room. Harry doesn’t catch the words, but it sounds like the spells Appa uses for cleaning. Something’s gonna be messy. Are they cooking lunch together again?

And then Appa heads for the medicine cabinet, and the fear is real.

It’s kashayam day and Harry has no hiding places ready.

“ _Hari, sweetheart, come here for a second, please?_ ” Appa’s voice is dripping kindness and Harry sighs and creeps into the kitchen. He doesn’t expect what he finds Appa doing, which is rubbing the gross, brown liquid into a pair of the tiny, kid sized gloves Harry had gotten at the doctor last week. Appa pulls them onto Harry’s hands before he can react, and grins. “ _Have fun licking things now, sucker_.”

Harry experimentally sticks a finger in his mouth and recoils at the taste, pulling his hand out of his mouth to try and get the taste out. “Yucky.”

“Yucky’s right.” Appa chuckles. “Medicine isn’t supposed to taste good, though. Plus, your immune system’ll be excellent, after this.”

“You’re killing me.” Harry says, in the same tone Uncle Sirius does, and Appa rolls his eyes.

It gets all over his toys, and all over him, but within a week, Harry isn’t licking things anymore. Appa looks satisfied, smirking like he always does when he thinks he’s won, and Harry crafts the best revenge prank ever.

Appa howls for hours when he finds out, a little too late, that his lucky red underwear’s been in the freezer for days. 

* * *

“Appa?” Harry asks, crawling into bed. For as long as he can remember, he and Appa have shared a room and a bed, and for the first time in awhile, Appa’s in bed before him. Appa likes being up late and waking up early. He’s weird. Harry thinks Appa’s silly. Uncle Sirius does too. “You awake?”

Appa hums, nodding slowly, and Harry grins, snuggling up to him. “Can I ask a question?”

“That’s already a question.” Appa mutters sleepily, and Harry groans. “Go on.”

“How come I don’t have a mom?” Appa sighs, sitting up slowly, and Harry snuggles a little closer. Appa puts his arm around Harry, pulling him in close. “All the other kids at the temple have both. Paru and Padma have Abhay Periyappa and Indu Periyamma and we just have… you and me.”

“Well, we’re doing fine with just us, don’t you think?”Appa asks, ruffling Harry’s hair. “Besides, there’s no way you’d have more than me. See, I found you in the trash can on the way back home from work one day. You were just a tiny little thing, so I brought you home, and here we are.”

“Appa! Not nice!” Appa laughs as Harry frowns, hugging him tight. “I’m not garbage!”

“You’re not, you’re not.” Appa kisses the top of Harry’s head. “I’m just kidding. You’ve got both, it’s just that your Ammu can’t be here.”

“How come?” Harry asks, playing with the loose threads on Appa’s t-shirt, and he shrugs.

“The government. Taxes. A large scale monkey attack.” Appa lays back down, pulling Harry with him, and yawns. “We’ll talk more in the morning, alright? About this.”

They don’t really get around to talking about it before Harry gets in trouble for saying that his mother was carried away by monkeys in his All About My Family report on his first sharing time in first grade.

Years later, Harry finds a letter in his father’s half of the closet, while moving out of their apartment, telling Appa not to bother coming to Ammu’s funeral, as “his kind” weren’t allowed. It’s signed Petunia Dursley, which is no less than he’d expected. He folds it up, puts it in his pocket, and burns it at the first opportunity.

Appa never mentions that it’s missing.

* * *

Harry, at eight years old, is very nearly the spitting image of his father. A lot smaller, but that's to be expected. He doesn't drink his Complan.

He's got James' brown skin, his too large ears and his knobbly knees. But, unlike his father's, Harry's eyes are a striking emerald green. His mother, Lily, had green eyes. Lily also enjoyed fighting people, especially his Uncle Vernon (who smells lots and sucks), Potions, and didn't like lilies at all.

Harry isn't allowed to mention them on any of those Bad Days, though, but any other day is free reign. And he asks and Appa answers. But today is September 18th, and Appa hasn't shaved for two days, so his face is really prickly when he lifts up Harry for their good morning hug. "Did you sleep well, thangamae?"

"I dreamt about a unicorn." Harry says, nodding excitedly as Appa puts him down. He's eight now, far too old to be carried places, and he reasons that Appa might be getting tired of carrying him places. He'd never say it, though. That's how Appa is. He doesn't say things. Harry kind of hates that. "It had pretty eyes like yours."

"Did it really?" Appa ruffles Harry's hair before opening the cupboard. Today's Monday, so cereal's for breakfast. Tuesday is toast. Wednesday is oatmeal day. Thursday is rice day, because Appa keeps a whole week’s worth of rice on Wednesday night, and it’s invariably too much. Friday is dosa day, because Appa is always happiest on Fridays. And Saturday and Sunday are the days Harry gets to pick. Appa likes his schedule, though, so Harry tries not to mess with it. "That's one silly looking unicorn."

"You're not silly looking, 'pa. I like you." Harry climbs into his chair. There are still three chairs around the table. No one touches the third one.

"Well, Hari, I like you too." Appa says, a slight chuckle emerging at the end of the last word that makes Harry think that, maybe, this September eighteenth will be different from the others. Maybe Appa will be fine. Maybe there won't be any crying this year. Maybe Ammu will let them have this day be a Capital G, Capital D, Good Day. But when Appa turns around, two bowls full of cereal in hand (they both hate milk making things soggy), Harry knows that it won’t last.

Ammu’s ring is in his t-shirt pocket.

They eat in silence, nothing but crunching noises hanging between them, until Appa swallows hard and looks Harry straight in the eye. He’s got that look on his face that means trouble (or a long talking to) and Harry knows it most recently from asking why he had one parent while all the other kids at his school had two. Appa hadn’t been happy, but he’d explained. He’d told Harry that he’d been found in a trash can, and the headmaster called Appa in for a talk. That hadn’t been a Bad Day like today, though. “I know you know what today is.”

“The day you and Ammu got married.” Harry says, mouth half full of cereal. “Uncle Sirius told me.”

“I bet he did. Sirius is always getting ahead of himself.” Appa says, shaking his head in mild exasperation. Harry knows Appa doesn’t mean it—he’s always mad at Uncle Sirius for telling things about Ammu that he doesn’t think Harry’s ready for, but they make up in a matter of minutes. Harry thinks it’s silly, really, that they fight so much when they know they can’t stay mad at each other for too long. “Temple after school?”

“Temple after school.” Harry confirms, nodding. Ammu wasn’t Hindu, not like he and Appa are, but he thinks they’d appreciate their prayers. Maybe. He doesn’t know what they would have wanted, really, beyond what Appa, Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus tell him. He thinks they would have loved him though, ‘cause that’s one thing everyone had agreed on, when he’d asked. They would have loved him a lot, and that’s why they had to go.

“Appa?” Harry asks, hesitantly. Appa grunts, not looking up from his cereal. That’s his signal that he’s listening. “What was Ammu like?”

“Your Ammu… they were…” Appa closes his eyes for a second, shaking his head. Harry thinks he might be upset, but Appa sighs, shrugging, before opening his eyes again. He must have remembered something, Harry reasons. Appa’s lucky in that, at least, because Harry doesn’t have much he remembers. “They were brilliant. Smartest person I ever knew, and I hung out with Remus on a regular basis. Same sense of humor as you, actually. Cared about every single person they met, no matter what they’d done or where they’d been. Very much like you.”

“Really?” Harry’s eyes light up when Appa smiles softly. “They must have been great, then.”

“I would have spent forever with them, if they’d let me.” Appa says, before he frowns slightly, shoveling cereal into his mouth. It hangs heavy between them, the knowledge that neither of them will ever get that forever, but they don’t acknowledge it. They’re making it on their own just fine, in their crummy bachelor pad that sometimes smells when Appa forgets the laundry too long, and Harry likes the way they are. Maybe that’s because he’s never known much else.

“I bet they wanted that too.” Harry says, before tucking into his cereal too. “You’re the best. I’m never gonna leave you anywhere, I promise.”

“Dragging your old man with you places?” Appa snorts. “I’ll remind you of that once you hit fourteen.”

“Well, you won’t have to, ‘cause I’ll be taking you with me, wherever I am.” Harry grins, and Appa reaches over to ruffle his hair. His hands are big, nearly the size of Harry’s head, and he feels safe when Appa’s up to horsing around. It’s better than the times when he goes silent for days on end and Harry finds him lying on what he knows is Ammu’s side of the bed and pretending he hasn’t been crying. “Promise.”

“Pinky promise?” Appa asks, holding out his hand, and Harry hooks his pinky around his father’s.

“Pinky promise.”

* * *

Harry sits straight up in bed, sweaty and shaking, as he calls out for his mother, and before he knows it, Appa is sitting beside him with his arms tight around Harry’s shoulders. Harry scoots closer until he’s practically in his father’s lap, leaning his head on his shoulder.

“ _What’s wrong, buddy_?” Appa can’t be bothered to speak in English this early in the morning, and Harry doesn’t mind. He can’t either, if he’s being honest. The words rumble in Appa’s chest, right where Harry’s ear is pressed, and he tries his best not to cry. “ _Can't sleep?_ ”

“ _Ammu was with me and then… there were lights and yelling and…_.” Harry forces out, sniffling loudly. “ _Ammu was just gone and then I woke up_.”

“ _Let’s do something then._ ” Appa says, walking over to Harry’s closet before retrieving the box that Harry’s not allowed to touch, and unlocks it with the key hanging on the chain around his neck. The key hangs right behind the Ganesha medal that Harry’s grandfather, who he’s never met, had given his father at eleven. It’s identical to the one that hangs on a chain around Harry’s neck, and gives Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia small heart attacks every time they catch a glimpse of it. Serves them right, he thinks. They don’t have enough shock value in their lives. The mattress dips slightly when Appa sits back down, and he holds something out. “ _See, here’s the two of you together. Take that._ ”

Harry reaches out for the photograph, holding it carefully to avoid bending it. Ammu is playing with a baby Harry, who giggles every time they yell “I see you” during their peekaboo game. They are in a kitchen that Harry only remembers from shrardham days, and the thought makes him cringe. “ _What should I do?_ ”

“ _What do you think you should do_?” Appa watches as Harry presses the photo to his chest, hugging it tight. “ _That’s a good start_.”

“ _I hope so_.” Harry mumbles, before tucking it under his pillow.

He never sleeps without it again.

* * *

“Kanna?” Appa calls down the hall, and Harry sticks his head out of his room. “You ready?”

  
“For—Oh.” It’s the worst day of the year, at least by Harry’s reckoning, and the fact that Dad is dressed ridiculously formally is proof. Harry saw Appa fixing up his shirt buttons late at night, trying to get them done all right, and that only happens before one thing. Aunt Petunia’s. He knows he’s supposed to like seeing his relatives, but he’s never quite at home with them. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“We’d best get going then.” Harry sighs, holding out his hand to his father, and Appa grabs him by the hand before they both get squeezed down a metaphorical tube, crash landing into an alleyway two streets away from Privet Drive. Appa brushes Harry off, before beginning the walk to their reckoning. “Remember, play nice and they won’t eat you.”

“You too, Appa.” Harry rings the doorbell, only to be greeted by Vernon, who is just as smelly and walrus like as Harry remembers him from last year.

“Eid Mubarak.” Appa says, trying his best to stop sticking out like a sore thumb, and Vernon rolls his eyes.

Harry steels himself, ready for two hours of Aunt Petunia griping endlessly about a boy like him being raised without a maternal influence and how he was sure to become an unemployed drunk just like his father, and makes his way to the kitchen, where he can hear his aunt and cousin whining about something that he hardly think matters.

If anything happens, Appa’s right behind him. He’s got his back.

Harry’s always known that.

“For family”, Harry says, later that evening, “they sure don’t like us.”

“Want to hear a secret?” Appa says, right before putting the yogurt into the oven to sit overnight.

“Yeah!” Harry grins. He’s always ready for secrets.

“I’m pretty sure we don’t like them either.” Appa kicks the oven door closed before going back to finishing up dinner, and Harry nearly falls out of his chair laughing.

* * *

“Line up, kids.” Mrs. Patil says, and Harry, Padma and Paru arrange themselves in some semblance of a straight line. Harry’s down to his boxers (truck printed, which neither of them are forgetting to remind him of at _least_ every two and a half seconds) and they’re all shivering because it’s four in the morning and none of them want to be awake. Padma’s doing just fine, looking about excitedly, but Harry and Parvati are dragging their feet and yawning at every opportunity.

Maybe, Paru had said, while the parents were setting up, if they yawned enough, the adults would fall asleep and leave them alone. Padma said she’d read something about yawns being contagious, and Harry had agreed immediately. So far, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Baba, this isn’t worth it.” Paru groans to Mr. Patil, who’s half asleep himself, sitting down on the right most of the three wooden boards the parents had set down. Harry picks the left most one, thankfully awake enough to realize that whoever gets that one is first in the bathtub, first out of the bathtub and first to breakfast. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“That’s the point, Paru.” Appa says, ridiculously cheerful like he always is in the mornings. “The sun isn’t up yet, so we can do embarrassing things, like dunk our kids in oil and laugh about it.”

“James, stop messing with the kids. It’s too early.” Everyone in their right mind is terrified of Indira Patil, and for five hundred different reasons.

Harry thinks she’s the greatest aunt ever.

Appa immediately shrinks in on himself, muttering something as he and Abhay Periyappa group together as quickly as possible. They know both of them together still can’t win against her, but they have a significantly better chance than either of them does alone.

“Morning, Hari.” Indu Periyamma pinches his cheeks before setting to work on the oil bath that’ll have them all smelling for the next hour at least. “How’ve you been?”

“You just saw me yesterday.” Harry says, confused, and sticks out his leg when he’s told to. “Not much has happened.”

“I’m sure something has.” She says, rather good natured for it being ridiculously early in the morning.

“I had a dream about pirates.” Harry says, leaning his head forward so she can rub the oil into it. It’s sticky, and he can feel it sliding into his ears, but he doesn’t mind. It’s nice to be part of something. “They had big boats that flew. So they were sky pirates.”

“Sky pirates are ten times better than regular pirates, I think.” She says, as she ruffles Harry’s hair. Harry’s hair is sticking up at about a hundred more angles than normal, and he’s pretty sure he looks like an oily hedgehog, but he shrugs it off, settling back when Indu Periyamma moves on to Padma.

Harry’s just starting to fall back asleep when he realizes it’s his turn for the aarti, and giggles when Periyamma presses her wet thumb against his forehead. “It’s cold.”

Abhay Periyappa is laughing too, and Appa is desperately trying to look somber in the hopes that at least one adult will keep it together enough to show the kids that today’s an occasion that deserves respect. They give up about half an hour in, because they’re all practically kids themselves, and Appa chases Harry, Padma and Paru down with the hose in the backyard, like he used to do when they were really little kids, because they’re all too tall to fit in the bathtub at the same time now.

“At least we get food.” Padma shrugs and Harry throws an arm around her shoulder.

“Food’s good.”

“Better than you.” Paru says, and Harry has to duck to avoid getting hit in the face by a handful of grass.

* * *

“You don’t have to go through with this”, Appa says, and Harry knows why. If Harry does this, he risks setting his mother’s family against him as a whole. His aunt and uncle, at the very least, won’t speak to him anymore, and even the tenuous peace they’d achieved will be gone. But this is what Harry’s grown up with, the rituals and the routine of it all, and maybe part of it’s that he still wants to be just like his dad, but maybe part of it is for him too. “It’s a big decision for a little boy to make.”

“I’m going to be eleven soon, Appa. I can make big decisions.” Harry says resolutely. “And I say that it doesn’t matter what they think, ‘cause any family that’s worth my while will stick with me no matter what. Least that’s what Uncle Sirius said.”

“Really?” Appa cracks a grin. “That’s a nice piece of advice you’ve got, there.”

“Yeah!” Harry nods. “Besides, if they’re gonna make fun of me, I might as well be proud of what they’re laughing at.”

“Sometimes I forget how much you’ve grown up.” Appa says, ruffling Harry’s hair. “Hardly need me anymore, these days.”

“Please, Appa.” Harry says, in all seriousness. “I’m going to need you forever. Homework’s _hard_.”

* * *

They get nearly all the way through the ceremony before the priest realizes that Harry’s mother has not been present this entire time.

” _Where’s the boy’s mother?_ ” The priest asks, leaning over to Appa. The time’s running out. These things have to be done quickly and on time, or they’ll get stuck in inauspicious hours. And that’s a whole other ballpark.

“ _Passed away when he was one and a half._ ” Appa says, with a slight grimace. Harry echoes it, because he hasn’t realized that it’s almost been ten years. Ten years is almost as long as he’s been alive. Of course, that makes sense, but it’s weird to think about.

“ _Is there anyone else? He needs to beg alms from his mother_. _Or the closest thing he has, I suppose. Any relatives?_ ” The priest is looking a little tetchy, and Harry nods, speaking up.

“ _Appa, Indu Periyamma is here. She’s close enough._ ” Appa smiles at Harry and nods.

Harry prostrates himself at Mrs. Patil’s feet and says every word that the priest asks him to repeat, and smiles up at her when she pours the rice into his hands. He feels like he might cry, just a little bit, but he’s eleven now. He won’t cry, especially not in front of all these people.

So he smiles instead, at Appa and the Patils and all of Appa’s cousins and their kids, because it feels better. Nicer. Like he’s got something to be strong and happy about. The threads are unfamiliar, feel kind of itchy against his shoulder, but if Appa got used to them younger than he did, he can do the same. Harry’s better than his dad at everything, including chess, poker and guessing Wheel of Fortune puzzles, so he’s definitely going to be better at this.

Besides, Paru and Padma wouldn’t let him live it down for _ages_ , and they’re all about to go off to school together, in a month.

After the three days of people everywhere is over, it’s just him and Appa pushing plastic chairs across the floor at each other until they smack together. Harry’s not allowed to change out of his veshti or bathe for three days, and he thinks that’s supremely ridiculous, but Appa’s trying his level best to distract him. And a game was the obvious solution to that problem. The screeching noise the chairs make as they slide across the concrete is annoying, but they manage.

“Are you happy with me, ‘pa?” Harry asks, tilting his head to the right just slightly. It’s a habit he doesn’t know where he picked up. From the look in his father’s eyes, he thinks Appa might know where. “I didn’t want you to be mad, ‘cause I know you want me to be involved with Ammu’s stuff and it looks like I’m picking sides now that I’ve done this and—"

“I’m always going to be happy with you.” Appa replies succintly, shoving a plastic chair so hard that Harry’s hesitantly sent forth challenge topples over. Harry laughs. Maybe he’ll take up Quidditch, when he gets to second year, and get strong like Appa. Maybe he’ll win then. Appa’s the best, though, so he’d find a way to win no matter what Harry did. But, Harry thinks, he doesn’t mind losing, as long as it’s to him. “You’re a big kid now. You make your decisions, as long as they’re safe and don’t hurt anyone else, and I’ll agree with you.” 

Harry puffs up his chest, feeling a little too important, and Appa rolls his eyes. 

” _Keep on going like that and I won’t say a single good word about you again._ ” 

Eventually, the cleaning people come in and berate them both soundly for messing up the chair set up so much, and Appa and Harry end up in the kitchen of his grandparents’ house a few hours later, making dinner together like always. It feels like it’s a billion degrees out, and Appa laughs, saying that it’s just a big change from England, nothing else. They had to wait for Harry to turn eleven for this, so they turned up in early August, just in time for the rain starting back up again.

Rain, in England, meant that it would be cold out, so Harry thought that was some comfort. Turns out rain doesn’t mean anything in India.

Just a way to trick you into getting hit in the face with more hot stuff.

* * *

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Harry asks, as Appa helps him push his trolley up to the train. He’s finally old enough for Hogwarts, and he’s been dreading and hoping for this day in equal parts for as long as he can remember. Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus, who are hanging back to give Harry and Appa some space to themselves, are waving when Harry looks over his shoulder to check. “Without me around all the time.” 

“I’ll manage.” Appa slaps Harry on the back. Harry worries about him, especially since Appa’s been mostly at home, taking care of him, ever since Ammu passed. He’s done some work for the Ministry, every once in awhile, as a consultant for Magical Games and Sports, but it always seems to be temporary. Maybe he’ll pick up on something big, now that Harry will be away for the next few months. But maybe, the voice in his head that Harry loves ignoring says, he won’t. “I’ll pick up a hobby or two. Maybe something involving explosions.”

“Don’t blow up anything too big without me.” Harry nudges his father with his elbow and winks. “I’ll know if you do.”

“I’m sure you will.” Appa nods, before handing Harry his owl’s cage and backpack full of snacks. Harry jumps on the train, finding Ron’s compartment with ease, and “helps” Appa put his trunk on the rack above the seat. “Be safe. Write home as much as you can.”

“I’ll write every day, Appa, don’t worry so much.” Harry hugs his father tight, ignoring Ron’s pointed comments about that being weird, and waves as Appa closes the compartment door behind him. He thinks his father looks sad as he turns the corner, stepping off the train, and Hedwig hoots, as if she agrees.

He doesn’t find out, until years later, how low Appa had gotten once he left and he knows Appa wouldn’t have told him if his life depended on it. He was always trying to protect Harry from stuff that he thought was too hurtful for him. Maybe that was because he hadn’t managed to stop Ammu on Halloween. They’d died because they knew too much. Because they all knew too much. And maybe, Appa’s way of paying them back for their sacrifice was to try and make sure Harry didn’t know.

But all Harry knew, at eleven, was that Appa waved until the train pulled out of the station, a smile plastered perfectly on his face, and Harry let himself believe, for a second, that his mother was there too, just out of sight.

* * *

Harry sees his father next at the Christmas holidays, and he looks just fine, albeit a bit tired. 

He’s managed to do his buttons up right, which is a new thing, because, for as long as Harry can remember, Appa’s been horrible at buttons. He’d show up to breakfast with his collar up higher on one side than the other, because he couldn’t get the buttons and holes to match up right, and eventually had started leaving all of his shirt buttons buttoned except for the top one. Appa had told him once that Ammu would do them up for him, when he couldn’t get them right, and it was their way of telling him they loved him.

It was a nice story to hear, and Harry hopes he’ll find someone like that someday. But, above all, he thinks, when he sees his father, eyes trained on the ground as he awkwardly tugs at the cuffs of his button down shirt, he hopes that he doesn’t lose them. He looks like the pictures Harry had seen from his second Christmas, which Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius had only shown him once, when Appa was away. Like he’s losing someone all over again. His eyes light up when he sees Harry, and he waves excitedly.

  
Harry waves back. He’s not going to let his father lose anyone else. Not again.

* * *

“Appa?” Harry flops down on the couch beside his father, who is currently pretending to read the newspaper. “Got a question.”

“Go for it.” Appa folds the newspaper neatly before tossing it aside. “What’s got you thinking?”

“I wrote the Potions essay that was due before the Easter Holidays, right?” Harry pulls his knees up to his chest, wiggling his toes. It’s easier to be barefoot, and he’s not quite sure why he’s always supposed to be wearing his shoes at Hogwarts. Fine, he likes his toes intact, so he has to, but that’s weird. Appa would probably say something like “oh, they have to be ready to crush us at any time”, if Harry ever asked why white people have shoes on all the time. He’s also confused about toilet paper. What even is that?

“You’re worried about an essay you’ve already written?” Appa rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re good at Potions. No need to worry.”

“Hermione read it and she said it was brilliant! And then Snape gave me a T! Can you believe it?” Harry fumes, scrunching up his nose. “And then he deducted points for me getting mad about it!”

“ _Good god, buddy, what do you think you’re getting out of this_?” Appa chuckles. “ _Snape’s hated you for existing for too long to acknowledge anything otherwise. I bet your essay was wonderful._ ”

“ _Yeah! It was! That’s the worst part!_ ” Harry groans. “ _I put so much time into it, and I even went to the library, and then he says it’s insufficient effort because it was a centimeter short. I’ll show him. Insufficient effort. I’ll shove it up his ass._ ”

” _You can’t say that about teachers, Hari._ ” Appa frowns. “ _Snape may be worse than a loan lender on his best days, but he’s still teaching you things you don’t know._ ”

“ _I called him an overgrown bat and he heard me._ ” Harry pulled a face. “ _Detention for a week straight_.”

“ _What did I tell you?_ ” Appa throws up his hands, shaking his head. “ _I told you not to mess with Snape. Stay quiet, I said. Don’t bother him, I said. And then you go and bother him. See, you don’t listen to your father and you end up in detention. Are you ever not going to listen to your father again?_ ”

“ _No, Dad. I’m sorry, Dad._ ” Harry sticks his tongue out.

” _Keep doing that and your face’ll get stuck that way._ ” Appa frowns for a second longer before reaching across the couch to ruffle Harry’s already messy hair. “ _On second thought, it’d make you look a little better._ ”

“ _I’m never listening to you ever again, if that’s the kind of advice you’re giving_.” Harry slides off the couch, stomping down the hallway to his room. He knows that Appa’s fully aware that he isn’t mad, but he might as well keep up the act. It’s funnier that way, and eventually Appa will fold and feel bad if he thinks Harry’s actually angry.

“ _Have fun in detention, then!_ ” Appa yells, before Harry shuts his room door, and Harry flops onto his bed.

His father is _trash_.

* * *

Harry is fourteen and home for winter break when The Fight happens. 

He’s never seen Appa mad before. Sure, he’s cursed at faucets that won’t turn on and kicked a few chairs here and there, but Harry never remembers Appa mad. Appa would frown at him when he did anything bad, pick a few choice words to express his disappointment, and they’d forget the whole thing after Harry agreed not to do it again. As a child, he’d thought that itself was terrifying—the way he’d stare you down until you admitted what you’d done—but this was a whole new level of terrifying.

“Sirius, get out of my house.” Appa is fighting to keep his voice level. Harry can tell by the way his hands are shaking. When Sirius leaves, Appa will probably sink into one of his day long funks that usually result in a week’s worth of meals ready in the fridge. “Get out right now.”

“James, it’s been years! Lily would want you to—“

“Well, none of us fucking know what Lily wants, alright? Because Lily is dead. Lily is fucking dead. Are you happy? I said it!” Appa practically roars. “Are you happy now? Have I moved on enough for you?”

“James, I don’t think—“

“Well, think more.” Appa turns his back on Uncle Sirius as Sirius heads for the door, shaking his head.

“Lily would hate you like this.”

“I know.” Appa says, after the front door is closed, and Harry pretends he heard nothing.

Of course, he wants to tell Appa that he knows what happened with Uncle Sirius and that he bets Ammu doesn’t hate him. He wants to tell him that so badly, but he doesn’t come home until a day after the train arrives back at King’s Cross for the summer, and even then, does so heavily bandaged and muttering to himself. Uncle Remus finds him on Appa’s doorstep, and hugs Harry tight before letting him in.

Appa comes home that evening, looking more haggard than Harry’s seen him in years, and holds Harry’s head tight to his chest. Harry feels too small to be fifteen. “ _We’re gonna be alright, sweetheart. It’s going to be fine._ ”

“ _Appa, he’s back, he’s back, he’s back_ —“

“ _We’ll land on our feet. Don’t worry._ ”

* * *

Harry is nearly sixteen when Uncle Sirius passes, and he feels like his heart has been torn out of his chest and pureed in a blender. He is screaming at the veil, daring it to spit Uncle Sirius back out, when he hears a soft cracking noise behind him. Familiar hands come to rest on his shoulders as Uncle Remus’ move away, and he hears Appa whispering into his ear. 

“Hari, screaming isn’t going to bring him back.” Appa sounds like all the breath has been torn out of him, and Harry realizes that this is how his father has felt for years. He’s lived with this weight for years, and now that weight has doubled. “It’ll take time, but you’ll be alright.”

Harry worms his way out of his father’s arms, tearing himself free, and he can feel Appa go stiff, wondering if Harry will follow Sirius through the veil, but Harry turns abruptly, hiding his face in his father’s chest, tears soaking his father’s shirt. Appa kisses the top of Harry’s head, wrapping his arms tight around him, and Harry grabs his father’s sides, blubbering that he will never let him go, not ever. The top of his head feels wet, and he registers distantly that Appa must be crying too. He’s never known his father to cry on a day that isn’t a Bad Day, but this might become a fourth one on the list.

This time, one for both of them.

They are both holding each other from running to the veil, and they both know it, because Harry remembers the voice he is hearing from behind the fluttering fabric, calling him home, and knows that Appa does too.

They share Harry’s bed that night, the pillow that Appa sprays with Ammu’s perfume when he’s worse off than usual squished between them, and Harry threads his fingers through his father’s, wondering what it would feel like to hold his mother’s hand.

* * *

“HARI!”

Harry is two hundred kilometers away when his father screams his name, surrounded by the rubble of what had been the least fun wedding Harry had ever been to.

Harry is two hundred and one kilometers away when his father sinks to his knees, breath sticking in his throat as Mrs. Weasley shakes his shoulders, trying to bring him back to something resembling lucidity.

Harry is two hundred and seven kilometers away when his father looks everywhere for him before Apparating home to an empty house.

Harry is two hundred and fifteen kilometers away when his father wraps the birthday cake up and shoves it into the freezer without a thought.

Harry is two hundred and seventeen kilometers away when his father goes back into the master bedroom of their apartment for the very first time, and locks the door.

* * *

He turns the stone over once, twice and then a third time in his palm. “I’m ready to die.”

He has something to die for, now, a family who will miss him but mostly understand why, and if he is dealt the mercy of another escape from death, he will treasure it forever. But his mother could only do so much by giving up one life, and maybe it’s time for his to be taken, like it should have been all those years ago.

Three ghosts appear, first as puffs of smoke and then slowly shaping themselves into people, and Harry gasps in surprise. He sees Sirius first, smiling wide, and reaches out for him. “Sirius, I’m sorry—"

“I went down fighting, Harry, and that was better than any other end I could have asked for.” Sirius nods, looking satisfied, and Remus sets a hand on Sirius’ shoulder.

“But Remus, Teddy—“ Harry thinks of his two week old godbrother, who he hasn’t even met, who’s out both parents already. At least he had both of his until one and a half, even though he remembers next to nothing, save for what others have told him. Teddy will have nothing of his parents, nowhere to start or end with, and Harry swallows hard. He won’t let that happen. He’s always been jealous of Ron’s siblings, anyway.

Seems fitting that, when he finally gets one, it’s a white boy.

“Teddy will have others to tell him why his parents made the choices they made.” Remus sounds awfully quiet, and Harry thinks that he might be too, if he were telling his son why he couldn’t stay. And that thought brings him to the last of the ghosts.

A familiar one.

He’s nearly head and shoulders taller than his mother now, which he hadn’t been when he’d last seen them at eleven. He’d looked rather pathetic, at the time, and hopes he looks at least marginally less likely to fall over and die at a moment’s notice, now. Lily Evans looks confused, a frown on their face that Harry recognizes from looking in the mirror in the morning, and Harry realizes that they might not be seeing him. Sirius had joked that he’d gotten everything from his father except his height, at the time, and told him he might stay short forever, like his mom.

Sirius had lost that bet, but he’d been far too busy being dead to deal with the punishment they’d planned. Good for him, too. Complan’s disgusting.

“So. Hey.” Harry nods awkwardly, not sure what to say. He could recite lists of the things Lily liked, if asked, but he doesn’t know what to start with. There are so many questions he wants to ask, so much he wants to know, but there is a war at hand and that takes precedence over this.

“Hey.” They reply, looking every bit as awkward as he does. This must be weirder for them than it is for him, because they’re seeing the son who they remember as a baby for the first time since then. Even if he hasn’t grown more than half an inch in the last year, there have been big changes between one and a quarter and seventeen and three quarters (he still counts fractions, just for fun), for sure.

“So. You’re dead.” Harry scuffs his worn out trainers against the forest floor, looking away for a second. “Must be nice.”

“Yeah, I never would have noticed. Kind of great. No more having to deal with your dad.” Lily snorted, shaking their head.

“Appa’s not that bad.” Harry frowned. “I’d know. I’ve spent more time with him than you ever did." 

“He’s not _that_ bad, but he forgot to take care of himself while taking care of you.” Lily frowned, looking much like Harry did when avoiding tears. “Angry, denying bastard.”          

“Would this be a bad time to tell you that I’m going to die?” Harry tugged at the collar of his ratty, tan jacket, trying his best to keep a smile on his face. He thinks it was Appa’s, once, because it was annoyingly close to the middle of the closet, and god knows half the stuff that was on his side was Appa’s anyway. “I know you’re just raring to go with the Desi Mom speech, so let it loose.”

“My husband did not spend sixteen years raising you for you to pull something like this.” Lily had gone from sad to fuming in the space of sixty seconds, and from the way Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus were looking on, this seemed to be a relatively normal occurrence. “Stubborn goat, just like your father.”

“Hey, the goat didn’t bite him, so it doesn’t count.” Harry reaches out to put a hand on Lily’s shoulder, but it passes straight through. He tries to hide his disappointment, but Lily picks up on it quicker than he’d like. “Hey, maybe, if I end up dead and all, we could hang out. Dad got sixteen years alone with me, and you deserve better than nothing.”

“Or you could just... not die.”

“There’s no one to die for me for this time.” Harry shrugs, taking a deep breath. It is hard to acknowledge, that after all the work his parents have done, after all they’ve both given up, that he has to die, but it’s something that needs doing. It hasn’t felt real until now, hasn’t struck him until he’s saying it while looking straight at his mother, and he feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. But he can’t cry, not so long as they’re watching, because they need to believe that he can handle himself. At least as much as he can pretend it. “I have to do it myself. Thanks for putting it off awhile though, Ammu. Means a lot.”

“Don’t die, at least.” Lily says, after a moment’s pause. Harry understands, really. He’s spent more than enough time wanting them at any cost to know that it’s hard to do the right thing. “For his sake. He’d probably do something stupid.”

“Where do you think I got it from?” A branch cracks behind him, the Resurrection Stone slipping between his fingers, and Harry thinks he hears it thump against one of the patches of grass. The cracked branch turns out to be nothing, only left behind by one of the small creatures that inhabited the forest, but finding the Stone again would be more trouble than it was worth. Especially, Harry reminds himself, when countless lives are at stake.

If he can give up this one thing and save a hundred others for it, that’s the right choice to make.

His parents taught him that, if nothing else.

“Alright, Voldemort.” He says to the trees, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s see who’s boss here, huh?” 

* * *

When the battle has drawn to a close, Harry finds his father twirling his wand between his fingers in the rubble of the seventh floor. Appa’s forgotten to shave again, as he often does when upset, and he doesn’t look much different than Harry must, right now. Tired, broken down, but a winner. They’ve always been winners, no matter what the circumstance, and he’s glad that Appa has given him that part of himself.

It’s served him well, this past year. 

“I owe you an apology.” Harry says, speaking up, and Appa doesn’t look him in the eye. He nods, and Harry knows he’s listening, but he’s still mad. Hopefully, if Harry’s talents for worming his way out of trouble are still as strong as they were a year ago, he’ll make it out in one piece. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did, but… I had to protect you.”

“I know.” Appa says, finally meeting Harry’s eyes as he smiles weakly. “With all that Evans blood in you, how could you have done any differently?”

“I wouldn’t have gotten here without you and we both know it, ‘pa. Stop selling yourself short.” They are very nearly the same height, now, and Harry thinks back to the days when Appa seemed tall and strong and scary. Now that they’re evenly matched, in terms of height, Harry sees that his father, although he doesn’t quite look like the forty he’s approaching, is much older than the one he left behind in July of last year. There are a few more gray hairs added to his already sizeable collection (mostly Harry’s fault, he’ll admit that), and he looks thinner, more fragile.

It’s odd, how perspective changes things.

“I’m pretty sure science has proven that cake can be frozen indefinitely.” Appa says, after a few moments of silence. “Want to find out?”

“You didn’t.” Harry grins. He’s been away nearly ten months, now, and he’s sure this birthday cake is going to be gross, but he’s hungry. Might as well take a few risks.

“Well, you didn’t come home, so what option did I have?” Appa ruffles Harry’s hair. His hands don’t seem so big anymore, but Harry doesn’t feel any less safe for it. Appa looks a little troubled again, and Harry frowns.

“I… I need to tell you something.” Harry begins, unsure how to breach this subject. He thinks back to his mother in the forest, thinks back to the smile that matches his and the eyes he shares with them, and wonders what they think of their boys, now. All grown up, the both of them. “I saw Ammu. In the forest. When… I had the Resurrection Stone, and I wanted to see what it would do and… Uncle Sirius and Uncle Remus showed up and… Ammu did too.”

Appa’s eyes darken, like they always do when he is hiding something.

Harry is hiding something even greater, the talk with Dumbledore and King’s Cross, but his father doesn’t need that story. He needs Harry back. And Harry is here and Appa is here and they are both breathing, so no one needs to be the wiser. Maybe he will tell his father someday, when neither of them is afraid of being alone again, and maybe it will end well.

But that doesn’t matter now.

Appa is silent, staring Harry down, and nods, as if asking him to continue.

“Ammu says you’re a stubborn goat. And that you’ve forgotten to take care of yourself. They’re so mad at you.” Harry tries to hold it in for a second, but all of a sudden, he is laughing and crying all at once. He hasn’t missed out on anything, not even once, and his father has made sure of that, but having this extra something is invaluable. He knows his mother, actually knows what they would say to him, actually knows what their smile looks like from something other than a picture, and the memory is more than enough to last him a lifetime.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until his father’s arms are cinched tightly around him, and he hides his face in Appa’s shoulder like he’s still six and Appa’s carrying him back up the stairs after a late night with his uncles. But it’s been eleven and a half years since that was last true, and Appa probably can’t carry him anymore, despite the fact that he probably will still try. Harry’s his own person, now, and maybe that’s what growing up is about.

“They still love us, Appa.” Harry chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut. Appa’s fingers run through Harry’s hair, and it’s practiced and familiar, a motion born of years of chasing away nightmares and fighting the monsters in the hallway closet at two in the morning. Appa’s muttering something into Harry’s ear, which is currently tucked right up against Appa’s jaw, and Harry doesn’t have the presence of mind to hear it, but he knows it’s full of love and well wishes and all that sappy stuff his dad thrives on. “They still do.”

“You know, if it took you sixteen years to figure that out, maybe I haven’t done as good a job as I thought.” Appa chuckles and it feels like an earthquake. Harry feels like he can fight the world again, like things aren’t all over just because this prophecy finally is. This time, neither of them will lose anyone. “If there was one thing Lily wasn’t short on, it was love for incorrigible assholes.”

“Oh, you mean you?” Harry mumbles, swallowing hard as the lump in his throat finally recedes far enough to let him breathe.

“Who else?” Appa snorts, and Harry can practically hear the roll of his eyes in his voice. “Snape?”

“Of course.” Harry shakes his head. “Snape was Ammu’s true love. They’re probably preparing an epic list of all of your faults for when you finally kick the bucket.”

“Incredible.” Appa sighs, and Harry looks up just in time to catch the trademark James Potter smirk. “Good thing you told me. I should have counter arguments prepared.”

“Well, you’ve got me for help.” Harry shrugs, worming his way out of his father’s arms. “Plus, I threatened to fight Ammu for you, so I shouldn’t get grounded for anything I’ve done in the past year. Because I love you and stood up for you in a potentially life threatening situation.”

“Against a ghost.” Appa shakes his head as they begin the walk down the hallway. Harry knows just as well as his dad does that they’re going to sneak out to Hosgmeade using the three eyed witch statue and Apparate straight back home. He doesn’t anticipate being let out of his father’s sight again, at least for another year, but it should be alright. At least he’ll get good food out of it. “You’re not leaving the house ever again, erumamaadu.”

“ _But Appa, I’m you_ _r favorite._ ” Harry wheedles, nudging his father with his elbow. 

“Yeah. And now you’re my grounded favorite.” Appa shrugs, smiling brightly, and if Harry holds his father’s hand on the way home, neither of them say a thing about it.

* * *

“Meet your granddaughter, Appa.” Harry holds out his newborn daughter, who’s sleepily yawning. Ginny smiles from the hospital bed, and Appa waves back. The boys are asleep, Remus Rubeus in James Junior’s lap as always, and he smiles as Harry carefully places her into his arms. “This is the last one, don’t worry."

“Better be.” The baby opens her eyes. They’re hazel, not green. Harry’d made certain of it before calling his father in. Appa sighs in relief as her eyes flutter closed again, shifting her slightly in his arms. “What’s her name?”

“Lily.” Harry says, and he can see his father’s heart stop. “She looks a lot like them, and, I figure…”

“Yeah.” Appa says, nodding slowly. Harry watches him carefully, but Appa does nothing worth watching. He just stands there, with Lily in his arms, watching her breathe. “She does.”

“I know I should have asked you first and—“

“There’s only one person you should have asked.” Appa says, smiling as Lily works a hand free of the swaddling clothes. He lays a finger in the center of her palm and she closes hers around it. “And they’d have said yes.” 

* * *

“Grandpa?” Junior wanders into the room, shirt half tucked in and buttons half done. “Could you help?”

“I’ll do my best.” James kneels down to try and make it easier on himself as he tugs his grandson’s shirt tails out of his underwear. “You want to know a trick to make it easier?”

“If you’ve got it, I’ll take it.” Junior shifts his weight back and forth between his feet, swaying slightly. “I’m going off to school soon, right? Got to figure these things out for myself. Daddy says I’ve gotta be a grown up.”

“Please, your dad was the same way.” James rolls his eyes. “Harry hadn’t a single clue how to button a shirt or tie a tie until he found a library book on it.”

“Really?” Junior looks a little more hopeful than usual, and James reaches up to ruffle Junior’s hair. It sticks up in the back, just like his and Harry’s and little Remus’ do, and Junior’s inherited Lily’s goofy smile to match.

“The trick is to start at the bottom, see?” James hold the two sides of the shirt together, lining the last button up with the hole. “You put it through, and tap the button to make sure it’s good. One, two, three, four…” James counts Junior’s buttons off until he reaches the top, and grabs Junior’s nose between his thumb and index finger. “Got your nose.”

“Let go!” Junior tries to wiggle his face out of James’ grasp, giggling. “Thatha, stop!”

“Fine, fine.” James lets go and Junior nearly falls on his ass. “You’re going to remember that one, I bet.”

“Yeah.” Junior says, pouting as he rubs his nose. “I’m gonna remember that one forever.”

“You’d better.” James nods, ruffling Junior’s hair again. “Someone’s got to keep the tricks going after I’m dead and gone.”

“You won’t ever die, I bet.” Junior says, frowning slightly. “At least you shouldn’t.”

“I’ll try my best.” James nods. “I’ll try my best.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> -Appa (Tamil) -- Dad/Daddy (affectionate)  
> -Ammu (Bengali) -- Mom/Mommy (affectionate)  
> -kanna (Tamil) -- sweetheart (affectionate, usually used to describe children)  
> -banian (Tamil) -- white tank top style undershirt. the ones that last forever.  
> -kashayam -- gross medicinal concoctions made of herbs and water and god knows what else.  
> -Periyappa/Periyamma -- respectively, a male relative of the father and his wife. Harry refers to the Patils this way because James and Mr. Patil are close, not because they're related.  
> -thangamae (Tamil) -- my precious (affectionate, usually used to describe children)  
> -erumamaadu (Tamil) -- literally water buffalo, but usually used to describe a stubborn person (especially a child)  
> -thatha (Tamil) -- grandpa  
> 


End file.
